


When We Fell

by teaandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Superlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an errand in Kent, Castiel runs into a familiar face.</p><p>  <i>Castiel never understood what the cherubs meant about soulmates being two halves of one whole, but in these two he could see it. How one completed the other. How one could potentially fall, become desperate and incoherent and utterly, frighteningly destructive without the other.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Fell

Castiel senses them before he sees them, their bond palpable in the air and the mark of what they once were still pulsing from their now human bodies. He has just transported Dean and himself to Kent near the small cemetery of a large estate. They are here to dreg out the bones of an ex-pat’s great-great grandfather, a spritely ghost who has been haunting a young woman’s cozy inn in Ojai. 

Castiel was glad to leave the inn. The space was tight, filled with cats that clawed at his ankles and made Dean’s eyes redden and water. He lingers behind the wooded brush, straining his human ears and flexing his angelic senses.

“These estate plots are just creepy,” one of the humans says, his voice like a cloud, light and dense at the same time.

The other person snorts in agreement and when he speaks, his voice tickles Castiel’s ears. “We have a plot behind the manor. Mycroft’s already had his stone erected.”

“Not yours?” says the other man. Their voices sound familiar in a way that Castiel can’t quite place, almost like the echoes of a bird that has long been extinct. When the other voice doesn’t answer, he reaches out again, and that tethered force that anchors the two beings together vibrates. 

He tells Dean to stay back with a look, even though he knows Dean will follow him regardless. He steps out from behind the trees and reveals himself to the two beings.

They are two men. One is tall, with a mop of dark curls atop his head and a bounty of coiled up energy that threatens to rocket in any direction, and the other is shorter, his hair fairer, and his aura grounded, certain and sure of its place in the universe—a trait that Castiel greatly envies.

Castiel never understood what the cherubs meant about soulmates being two halves of one whole, but in these two he could see it. How one completed the other. How one could potentially fall, become desperate and incoherent and utterly, frighteningly destructive, without the other. 

The shorter man, John is his name, has his gun trained onto Castiel the moment he abandons the cover of the trees. The taller man, Sherlock is this one’s name, spins on his heels and regards Castiel, taking in his loose tie, trench coat in one quick sweep and scrunching his face as he tries to piece all the components of Castiel together. Castiel can feel the man's brain churning and failing to come to a conclusion about him. 

“Who are you?” asks Sherlock. " _What_ are you?"

“We’re the guys your friend has his gun fixed on,” says Dean. He digs his heels into the ground and cocks the hammer of his gun.

Castiel does not sense danger here. There is no ill-intent radiating from these two men, but there is an odd pressure on his chest. Something tapping at his core with light, persistent knocks.

John’s aim doesn’t falter, but his gaze lingers on Castiel, his eyes roaming over the angel’s face searchingly as his head slowly tilts to one side. 

Castiel finds himself mirroring the motion, and he peers inside the man, tunneling further into John’s soul until it bumps into a kernel of something bright and burning. 

“Grace,” says Castiel. 

“What about it?” snaps Dean.

“He has it,” says Castiel. He can feel Dean tense beside him, and he has to place a hand on the man’s shoulder to placate him.

John’s brows furrow in confusion. Castiel can feel fear and doubt emanating from the shorter man as he tries to make sense of Castiel’s words. 

“Right,” says Sherlock, misunderstanding Castiel's words. “You should see him dance.”

“That’s not what I meant,” says Castiel.

John lowers his gun and Castiel can feel the man’s synapses fire as realization dawns on his face. “Castiel,” says John, his voice soft and full of wonder.

A memory grips Castiel, one of a soldier, Michael’s right hand man, a quiet, competent angel that Castiel once greatly admired. There was a time when he tried to emulate that soldier’s steadfast devotion, his skill in battle, his unwavering faith in their Father and brothers. That is, until that angel decided to fall. Loudly.

“Who is he, Cas?” asks Dean. He moves closer to Castiel as he speaks and pivots his gun till it's trained on John.

“An angel,” says Castiel. “Or rather, he was.”

He turns to Sherlock who has taken a step back from John. Sherlock looks at the other man like he is trying to figure him out, decode some puzzle that has remained hidden to him until now. 

And Castiel is struck with another memory of another one of his brothers, one who was proud and questioned every order at every turn. Castiel remembers Gabriel coming to him, complaining about his latest charge, an arrogant angel who thought himself to be smarter than God. 

Castiel saw this angel only once. Castiel had been trailing after the other angel, the soldier, tracking his glow across heaven, when the two angels almost collided into one another. They two stopped only a hair’s breath away from each other and Castiel swore that in that moment heaven shook. Slowly, the angels began to circle one another. They circled for centuries, neither party pulling away, and Castiel imagined they kept circling for centuries after, long after he had grown tired of their dance and left seeking other pursuits. 

He did not hear of the angels again until the scandal broke across the sky that two angels had fallen and that they had fallen together.

“They both were,” says Castiel, and Sherlock looks more confused than before.

“Until—”

“Until we fell,” finishes John.

“Fell,” says Sherlock. He sounds angry and Castiel can’t fathom why. He was the one who wanted to leave heaven. He was the one who dragged John down with him. 

“Fell from what?” demands Sherlock.

John reaches for the other man, places a hand against his cheek and says, “Heaven, Sherlock. When we fell from Heaven.”

Sherlock jumps back as if he’s been scalded and he shakes his head violently. He barks a harsh laugh and when he speaks, his voice is near hysterical. “No. That’s illogical. Even for you, John.”

Castiel steps forward, intent on making Sherlock remember, but John holds a hand up at him. “Let me,” he says, moving towards Sherlock. 

He places his palm against the other man’s forehead and closes his eyes in concentration.

“What is he doing,” asks Dean, his voice soft and cautious.

“Making him remember,” says Castiel.

“How? I thought he wasn’t an angel anymore.”

“He isn’t,” says Castiel. “But he’s managed to retain some of his Grace.” Which is typical. If ever there was an angel who could fall without losing all of his Grace, it would be this one.

John lets his hand fall away from Sherlock as the other man sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes go wide and glassy. “You shouldn’t have,” says Sherlock in a harsh whisper. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

John’s fists clench at his sides. “It wasn’t your choice. It was mine. And I would do it again and again and again, because you’re an idiot, there and here, and you're utterly useless without me."

“Why’d you fall?” asks Dean. Castiel can note the curiosity in his voice. Dean’s always had an interest in fallen angels, maybe even respected them a little, with one blaring exception of course.

When neither man answers, Castiel answers for them. “I believe John fell for love.” He looks at John and sure enough, there it is, love, painted all over his face, shining through his eyes as he looks at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s face softens and he immediately looks ten years younger.

“And him,” asks Dean of Sherlock.

Castiel clears his throat. “If what Gabriel told me is true, I believe Sherlock fell because…”

He looks up at Sherlock who is sharing a conspiratorial look with John. They are in orbit again, around each other, and Castiel is reminded of their first meeting when they spun and spun and Heaven and the Host became a backdrop for their tango.

Dean prompts Castiel to continue. “Because…”

“Because he was bored.”

Dean lets out a sharp laugh. “Can’t say I blame him,” says Dean. “And you just, what, fell together?” asks Dean. “How does that work? You grew up together?”

“We had to find each other,” says John, his voice a little sad, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. “It took a while.”

Castiel reaches out and probes John’s memories. He sees John in his late thirties, limping into a clean lab, unaware that he is about to set eyes on the person he’s meant to spend the rest of his life with. There is another being in the lab, and Castiel is surprised to find that it is a cherub in the room with them. He is wearing a suit and glasses, but there is no mistaking the angel; Castiel had seen him in Gabriel’s company enough times to recognize him even through the fog of John’s memories. He allows himself a small smile, a current of happiness moving through him at the idea that Heaven didn’t forsake all the angels that rebelled.

Castiel decides to keep this revelation to himself. Let the two men think they found each other by chance. Fate. Whatever. He doubted it would matter much to them. 

“I think it’s time for us to go home,” says John, his voice sounding far away and his eyes still locked onto Sherlock’s.

Castiel is glad to see them go. Their happiness is cloying. A reminder of what he doesn’t have. What he perhaps can never have.

“You two are gonna go bang, aren’t you?” asks Dean from beside him.

John rolls his eyes at Dean and Sherlock glares.

“Really, Dean.” chides Castiel, but Dean ignores him. 

Instead, Dean smirks at John and nods his head in approval. “Right on,” he says and throws Sherlock a wink. 

Castiel supposes he should be exasperated with Dean, but all he feels is fondness, waves of it coupled with the need to protect the other man from heaven, hell and the legions of cats bent on making Dean sneeze.

Their original task forgotten, John tugs at Sherlock’s arm, pulling him towards the narrow path that leads to the main house. Before they are out of hearing distance, Castiel calls out to them, his words leaving his mouth unbidden and unchecked. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks and from the corner of his eye, he can see Dean’s head snap in his direction. 

John and Sherlock turn to regard Castiel, then slowly turn their gazes back on each other. John looks up at Sherlock with an easy smile. “Only when his brother visits,” says John. “What I wouldn’t give to smite his smug arse every once in a while.”

Sherlock breaks out into a grin, complete adoration etched across every line of his face, and, for a moment, something flares up inside the taller man, an inkling of the Grace that once composed him.

Castiel has to look away because their devotion, their connection _hurts_ , and his gaze instinctively finds its way back to Dean—Dean who has his lips quirked up at one side and his eyes filled to the brim with a colorful commentary that he doesn’t have to voice because Castiel _gets_ it. 

He exhales heavily, and for the first time in all of his existence, he feels unburdened. He shuts his eyes. An image of Dean’s soul, bright, stubborn, flashes in his mind, and he takes comfort in the familiarity of its shape, its shimmer ingrained in his consciousness as surely as the Word.

“Let’s go home,” he says, holding out his hand and waiting for the solid weight of Dean’s palm against his.

**Author's Note:**

> If you could suggest a non-spoilery summary for this fic, I'd be really grateful. I am appallingly incompetent at summaries. Feedback is always welcomed, and, you know, not at all kept in a jar that I take out and press against my cheek when I'm feeling particularly sad.


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